


The King's Riddle

by itsdeianeira



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (even though I love the name Noah), A Bit of Fluff, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Angst and Feels, Childhood Friends, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Flashbacks, Friends to Lovers, Knight Stiles, M/M, POV Alternating, Prince Derek, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, War, canon character's death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 17:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11925255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsdeianeira/pseuds/itsdeianeira
Summary: He has been waiting for this war to be over, for his love to come home, sending away one insistent suitor after the other with a trick. He has come with a question that only the one person that knows him better than he knows himself can find the answer to, and he has stuck to it for all this time.Or, the one inspired by the Odyssey and Hoechlin's eyes.





	The King's Riddle

**Author's Note:**

> It was supposed to be a simple tribute to Tyler's eyes. Then I started writing and it got out of hand before I could realize it. It became this long, totally self-indulgent piece of romance that I wasn't even sure I wanted to post. But then again, what's the point in keeping it stored in my folder forever?  
> I hope you like it, regardless of everything, and please, forgive me for any mistake you might find but this is completely unbeta'd. Enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> PS: I recommend you to read the note at the end to see where I took inspiration from for the architecture.

War has finally come to an end. After five long years on the frontline, throughout which he hasn't seen anything but death and destruction, Stiles is finally heading back home.

In a few days, he will cross the doors of the citadel standing tall, chin up like the etiquette requires. He will victoriously lead his ranks – or rather, what’s left of them – back to the Kingdom of Beacon Hills. He will trot through a roar of cheers and applause that will welcome him and the rest of his men to their homeland.

But Stiles won't even hear the acclamation of the crowd, overcast by the rumble of cannons and the sharp clanging of swords still echoing in his ears. He will focus solely on the sound of the ironed hoofs hitting the ground in the anticipation of the quietness that will overwhelm him once inside the castle. Because he hasn't won anything that might be worth winning, and he knows that much.

In the last years, Stiles has seen too many tortured bodies, amputated, turned to dust. He has witnessed the horror, understanding for the first time the essence of men's brute force. He has seen his best men fall, his friends, his life companions. And now he’s coming back. Victorious, yes, but to what price?

So, the truth is, he cannot give one single reason for all the commotion that he is about to spark off.  What is there to celebrate, if his harder fatigue is yet to be faced? If the only thing that is worth conquering for Stiles is treasured inside the high walls of the castle, alive and pulsing?

Stiles might have won a war, but after such a long time he isn't sure how many chances he still has to win his own personal battle.

 

♜ ♖♜ ♖♜ ♖

 

“Stiles! Come here!”

“Dodgast!” Stiles muttered under his breath, which was coming short from his running. He risked a look over his shoulder and watched his father and another royal guard appearing out of the corner.

“Stiles!” his father's yell rebounded on the stonewalls of the castle, echoing loudly in the quietness of the afternoon.

“Damn it!” he heaved out again, before taking a turn to the left in the more remote hallway of the castle. Of course, when he realized he was facing a dead end it was too late. “Shit.”

“Stiles, you know you're not going to get away with it,” his father's voice came in a much lower tone than before, meaning he was probably getting closer than what was safe. Shit, he was about to get caught and he had no way out. End of the run.

Stiles slapped his back on the first door along the corridor, his shoulders flush against the hardwood while he tried to breathe in as regularly as possible. Cross on his heart, Stiles never resigned to his fate so easily.

A screech of surprise left his mouth when the door behind him opened and a strong hand fisted into the back of his vest. Whoever they were, they tugged forcefully, he was pulled inside and the door shut again.

_Game over, Stiles._

“Were you wishing to magically disappear into the wood?” The deep, calm voice from behind came like a bucketful of water in a hot summer morning: unexpected, but still definitely welcome. “Maybe camouflaging yourself with the walls? You are pale, Stiles, not translucent,” it added, amused.

“There you go with the insults,” Stiles said, raising an eyebrow before turning around. “What am I? Your personal jester, _Your Highness_?”

The way Derek rolled his eyes when Stiles summoned him by his honorific was the reason Stiles kept doing it every single time. That, and the smirk that would appear on the prince’s face in response to Stiles' wide smile. “What did you do this time, Stiles?”

At once, a loud bang beckoned them on the royal floor of Derek's blacksmith workshop. “Prince Derek?”

Stiles whipped his head to glance back at the door, looking worried, as soon as his father's voice came in from the other side of the thick oak wood. Once again, Derek’s firm hand grabbed his arm and hauled him around the room. They passed the table upon which Derek’s craftmanship was cumulating, fine sword upon fine sword, and stopped by the wardrobe where he kept his working clothes.

“Just one second, Sir John,” Derek called out towards the door. “I am not presentable at the moment.” And in a certain way, it wasn’t a lie. Derek was dressed only in his thin undershirt and riding trousers under the worn-out leather apron.

Derek opened the wardrobe and moved his heavy capes out of the way to reveal the false bottom. He pushed Stiles inside even before the shutter of the double bottom was completely open. Of course, Stiles hit his head hard on his hasty way in.

“Damn it, Derek! Be careful.” He cried under his breath.

“What did you do this time, Stiles?” the prince reiterated seriously.

“I- I just--” but Derek's attention was once again lured to the door by another bang.

“Your Majesty.”

“I am coming!” He yelled before he could take hold of a black riding jacket, look down at Stiles and add in a raging whisper, “Don't you make a sound.”

With that, Stiles found himself surrounded by a pitch dark as the lid was shut without preview notice, as the metaphorical storm raged into Derek's chambers.

“Apologies, Your Majesty. We were chasing after my son and I was under the impression he had taken this turn. Have you seen him, by any chance?”

“I am sorry, Sir John, but you are the first Stilinski I face today.”

Voices came dull to Stiles' ears, muffled by the wood and the fabrics stuffing the stall, but still, he could make out every word. Derek sounded perfectly calm, security mustered in years of practice at lying to his guards, his sisters, and his parents.

“Do you object us to inspect your workshop?”

“By all means.”

_That son of a..._

The guards marched into the room and Stiles felt trapped once again as he listened to them pacing closer and closer.

“So… what did he do this time?” Derek asked.

_Oh, no. Please, don't answer._

“He was found roaming around the labyrinth, My Prince. He is well aware of the ban, and being the Captain’s son does not give him any privilege on it. He is not allowed into the private royal spaces and he shall be punished for his infringement.”

Great, now Derek knew. Stiles had been found just outside his favorite place in the world, Derek's _locus amoenus_ , his little heaven. Stiles could perfectly picture the prince's eyes as they widened in surprise before they could fill with tenderness. Then, he would mildly lower them in the attempt to hide his soft expression from the world.

Derek did that a lot, hide his eyes. He always complained that everyone would just compliment those hazel precious stones encased on his face, but never the pulsing precious heart encased into his chest. As if his eyes distracted people from knowing his true being. Stiles wouldn't agree, though, because those eyes were the fastest way to know Derek's true being. And he would know, having spent the last ten years delving carefully into them.

The first time he and Derek had met, Stiles had been hiding behind a tree in the most remote corner of the royal gardens. He had fled his dad's grasp during his mother's funeral and ran until his chest had started aching in painful spasms. He had wished for himself to disappear, dashing through the willow leaves, bound to the most secluded spot he could find. Or at least, he had thought it was secluded when he had slid his back down the log to sit on the ground. Right when he had thought himself away from prying eyes, finally free to cry, a young body had lightly landed on two feet upon the grass beside him. “Are you all right?”

Stiles only remembered looking up, then everything had faded behind Derek's irises.

The first time Stiles had ever seen Derek's eyes, they were forest green with speckles of gold. The rays hit those eyes just at the right angle, breaking through the leaves that floated above their heads, and through Stiles’ dewed lashes they seemed to glisten.

Stiles’ sobbing fit had ceased without him realizing as his mind overflood with marvel. His lungs had felt lighter, like somebody had just rent his chest open to let the suffocating fluids pour out. When Stiles had decided that the exact shade of green in Derek’s eyes would be his new favorite color, that morning, little did he know he would have never been granted another occasion to witness it.

Derek cleared his throat. “If I know your son, he’s got a terrible sense of direction. He could have lost his way to the castle for what we know.”

“I do not believe so, Your Highness. My guards reported to me he was sitting on the bench at the entrance.”

The closet was suddenly opened and Stiles jumped, covering his mouth to prevent any weird noise to come out. Outside of the fake bottom, Derek clothes were being moved and shaken to inspect the wardrobe and Stiles' heart started rabbiting against his sternum.

“Maybe he was just resting after a long walk.”

The rustling in the closet ceased and everything went still. Stiles was about to die, enclosed in the secret double bottom of the Prince’s wardrobe. What an honorable end for an eighteen-year-old.

“Whatever the case, Your Majesty, he was not justified.”

The shutter was closed with a clad and Stiles was so caught up in his relief that he didn't hear a word of what Derek said after. When he regained himself, it was already his father’s turn to speak.

“Are you sure, My Lord? I-”

“Stiles was not committing anything disgraceful, I am sure. I trust him,” Derek paused, and Stiles felt those words were directed to him, said aloud for him to hear. “And I trust you, Sir John, not to tell a single soul about it. I'll reprimand Stiles personally, just don't let my mother know.”

Stiles listened to his father stutter until the door of the chambers was opened and the guards’ steps faded out into the marbled hallways.

He didn't come out right away. Instead, he cringed, tightening his grasp on his shins, laying his chin on his knees. As soon as he came out of the closet, Derek would have known, he would have watched him in curiosity and confusion until Stiles would have nothing to do but to spill everything out. He was so fu--

“ _Stiles_. Are you going to come out of the closet?” _Ah_. Funny.  
“Don't know. I find it so comfortable here, after all.”

The double bottom was open, letting in the light which Stiles' eyes had grown unaccustomed to. His hand ran to cover them before his sight could settle again and he could manage to take Derek's extended hand helping him out of the wardrobe.

Once on his feet, he went straight for the exit, giving Derek his back to avoid his inquisitive glance. “My sister's labyrinth, really?”

There we go. “What about it?”

“Do not try to fool me, Mieczysław. You know you can’t. Why were you outside the labyrinth?”

“You know why I was sitting there, Derek.” He turned around, a sudden bout of bravery taking over his mind. The same bout that died out as soon as his eyes met Derek's.

He was forced to look down at the floor, but not before having memorized their current color.

They were fern today, with loose viridian tendrils tidily dancing around the pupil. Breathtaking, just like any other shade Stiles has seen filling those gems.

A sigh was heaved out as Derek's shoes came into Stiles' view. When the prince's breath ghosted on the side of his face, Stiles' hitched at the closeness between the two of them. Then Derek's fingertips skimmed his chin to tilt his eyes up.

“Please, Stiles. I need you to tell me.”

Stiles found himself transfixed by the painfully woeful expression in front of him. This wasn't about the labyrinth anymore, Stiles knew. The gardens were the emblem of something more, hiding the secret of their life, that one feeling they both had felt for a while now, but that none of them had ever had the courage to acknowledge.

And that was the point. There was a reason no one had ever revealed it, and that reason was still thoroughly valid. More valid than ever.

“What advantage could we gain from that, Your Highness?”

This time, the honorific caused Derek's eyes to glaze in pure hurt, Stiles’ word instilling reason back into his mind. They both knew Stiles was right; with confessions slipping out their mouths none of them would have been able to keep living the life they had been assigned to.

So Stiles kept his broken heart hidden behind a stone-cold façade.

His heartrate accelerated too fast to be healthy. He was about to inflict a deep wound to the last person he would have liked to hurt, but he had no choice.

“How are the wedding preparations coming, _Your Highness_? Is Lady Kathrine happy with the arrangement?”

There was no comparison powerful enough to describe the pain that slashed through Stiles’ chest when Derek’s grip loosened and he let his hand fall inert. The prince took a step back, solemnity tending his features.

“Very well, thank you. Lady Kate is very glad. Should I send her your kind regards?”

“By all means, My Prince. I wish you both the best.” Stiles bowed his head.

When Derek didn't reach out to him again, the boy turned around and headed towards the door. When Derek didn’t speak, Stiles walked out with a confidence that would dissolve into tears as soon as he was sure to be alone.

 

♜ ♖♜ ♖♜ ♖

 

The sun has almost set over the kingdom, painting the horizon in warm colors to match the glory of this memorable day. Derek is standing at his private window, basking in the dim light. In the distance, the pathway that leads up to the citadel sneaks out the clusters of trees that surround the hill. His eyes are glued to that vanishing point, waiting for his knights to appear from the woods.

He's dreading the moment he will face his past, a moment that is inching closer by the second, creeping up the hills, headed right towards him. He feels anything but ready.

His hands keep finding each other in an eternal fight, wresting and twisting those callous fingers, scraping the palms with short nails. He's sweating on a windy November night, and it is all so ridiculous that if he stops to reflect for only one second, he can clearly see the irony in his anxiety.

He's a King, for goodness' sake! He's the man that keeps this reign upright, who has leaden platoons to war, facing death more often that he would like to remember. He's the scholar that outdid his master in the use of the sword, only to become the first champion of all the Kingdoms of the West. He is all that and still, he cannot help the nervousness taking over him at the idea that Stiles is on his way back home.

Derek sighs. His shoulders sag as he tries to stretch those tortured wrists sinking at his sides like stones. Tomorrow, he will find himself in front of the person that could finally loose the knot of the promise he made years ago.

It has been three years since he left Stiles on the frontline, when his presence had been suddenly required at the palace and he had come back to become King. Three years since Laura’s death and three years since he found himself alone and burdened the heaviest responsibility this life had to give him. Derek has tasted the real loneliness. It has enveloped him like a cold wind spiraling inside and dimming the little spark of hope he had left. He has grown acquainted with guilt, felt numb for so long, locked himself in, refused everyone. At the lowest point, he thought about ending everything, leaving his kingdom in the hands of the enemy, and let himself be held captive by the Argents. Without his family, nothing was worth fighting anymore. He has been on the verge of giving up… then Stiles’ letter arrived, and that spark inside him lit up alive, renewed, the only reason he was still bearing this crown on his head.

He has been waiting for this war to be over, for his love to come home, sending away one insistent suitor after the other with a trick. He has come with a question that only the one person that knows him better than he knows himself can find the answer to, and he has stuck to it for all this time.

Now, however, he’s starting to doubt his choices, a million questions overlapping in his mind. Does Stiles still feel the same? Has he changed his mind? Has he changed at all?

These years have changed Derek, made him a different man since last Stiles has seen him. Therefore, it is only natural for Stiles to be a different man, too. And Derek can’t help wondering _how_ different, both in body and in spirit. He longs to know, longs to see with his own eyes what his old friend – _love_ , his mind supplies – has become.

The heavy clung of the door latch announces one of his guards’ advent, but he doesn’t let his eyes fall from the landscape outside, even when the thick wood is finally open behind him.

“My King.”

“Sir Vernon, what news?”

“My lord, troupes are on their way. Sir Stiles is leading them home. They are expected for tomorrow.”

“And we shall receive them as we are ought to. I want for the kitchens to start working at the first light of day, the feast shall be great to celebrate our men.”

“Of course, Your Majesty. I will arrange for everything to be prepared as soon as the sun raises.”

“Good. Any other message for me?”

“No, Your Majesty. That is all.”

Derek sighs, inexplicably disappointed. He hasn’t received news from Stiles in a long time, but he knows he’s safe and sound and on his way. What more did he expect?

“You may go now. You're dismissed.”

Boyd nods at the periphery of his sight, turning on his heels and marching towards the door. Until he stops.

“Oh, My King.”

“Yes?” This time Derek turns around fully to face the guard.

“May the Fortune favor you tomorrow.”

“Gratitude, my friend,” Derek nods, as a timid, unsure smile appears on his face.

For three years, this spark of hope has endured the coldness of Derek's secluded chambers, enlightening the dark, lonely nights of Derek's heart. The thought that Stiles could come and save him from himself was the only reason he was still standing.

It might just be wishful thinking, he repeats to himself, because after years of strain and death, Derek is the last thing that could cross Stiles’ mind. And yet, no matter how hard he impels himself to forget, he is not strong enough to let the delusion go.

 

♜ ♖♜ ♖♜ ♖

 

“I knew I’d find you here.”

Derek’s head whipped up when the voice startled him, like a needle bursting so suddenly the safe bubble of his thoughts.

His eyes met Laura’s and his shoulders sagged in relief.

“You’re not very original when it comes to hiding spots, are you?” She teased him, stepping onto the last rung of the ladder, and dragging her heavy gown on the little open tower.

Derek rolled his eyes and showed his tongue to his sister. Peace was over; the sooner he accepted it, the less the pain.

“I needed to escape the castle. I wasn’t trying to hide from you.”

“I know you weren’t. Had it been the case, you would not be standing here, at the center of my labyrinth. I taught you better than that.” She smiled tenderly at his younger brother, then grabbed her gown to take a seat on the marble floor beside him.

She was a wild creature, his sister, always running around and throwing everything into confusion. Sitting on the floor was nothing compared to stealing food from the kitchens, climbing walls or trees, sailing alone and whatever oddness might please her the moment later.

Their parents used to reprimand her often for her carelessness, repeated that she would have never found a consort by behaving like a peasant. They had eventually given up, however, when they had realized she could not care less about a consort. She was never one to follow the rules, but because she was an expert in breaking them she was also great at making new ones. She was born a leader, and they knew it. His sister was not one to be reigned, but she was ready to reign.

She bumped her shoulder with his. “I heard about the covenant with the Argents.”

Derek reclined his head, defeated, resting it against the intricate handrail that circumscribed the top of the little tower. He breathed, gaining time. Maybe if he ignored the problem…

“Dereeeeeek,” Laura poked him in the arm. “I cannot help you if you refuse to explain the situation to me, brother.”

“What’s there to explain, Laura? Everything’s so clear. Once upon a time, I was said I would be granted the chance to marry for love, and not for political reasons. Our mother swore that she would have done whatever was in her power to leave us the freedom of choice, a privilege that most royals do not have. But apparently, that was merely an empty promise. Because now I am betrothed to the daughter of our worst enemy. Have you got any idea of how despicable of a person King Argent is?” he asked rhetorically. Like Derek, Laura had witnessed the man’s temper not even two weeks prior. “And if Princess Katherine is anything like her father, my mother might have as well signed me for a death sentence.”

Laura’s eyes fell to the ground sharing her brother’s grief. “I’m sorry. If only Argent had an unwed son, I would have gladly sacrificed myself.”

Derek felt suddenly guilty for doubting her loyalty. She was his ally from day one, and nothing would have changed that.

He eased a reassuring hand on her shoulder and made her look up again.

“You have no reason to feel sorry, sister. I am grateful to you for always standing at my side, but I believe this time the burden is only mine to bear.” He sighed, shoulder sagging and eyelids falling closed.

“You know, the irony of it all lies in the timing,” he added, in spite of his better judgment. Laura tilted her head to one side, listening curiously. “As I grew up watching our parents love and support each other through so many storms, I knew I wanted an affection like that. I wanted love, true love, more than anything else, but for a long time, I was convinced I would never gain it.”

He looked up to meet her tender expression. She smiled mildly and eased a hand on his knee, urging him to continue.

“Laura, you more than anyone else know how hard is for me to fall in love. You know I am not one to fall at first sight, that I need depth, that I need time to grow attached. And you also know that royals lack these two things. For so long I did not dare to hope, did not allow myself to fiddle with thoughts of star crossed lovers or soulmates, because it was too hard to find. I refused to feed my delusions with such fantasies…”

Her grin widened. “But then, there he was, laughing at your scowl and blabbering mindless things to lift your spirits. Am I right?”

Derek couldn’t help the rueful smile on his face. “You know it is not simply that. He is much more than I could dare to hope.”

Derek still remembered the day he met Stiles. He could still picture bug eyes full of tears, the running nose, and the handkerchief with the golden royal crest on the corner he had fished out for Stiles. ‘You are Prince Derek?’ the kid had heaved out, causing Derek to scoff in amusement for the velocity with which he had gone from despair to stupor.

“He has always had the power to send my whole universe in disarray with barely the hint of a smile. And now...” Derek trailed off, shaking his head.

“Now you are in love,” she said with finality.

“Oh, good gods, Laura. What do I do?”

“I… do not know, Der. I wish I had an answer for you. I did try to warn you, time and time again, that you were falling, but I would never have guessed for you to hit the ground so hard.”

“I know you did, sister. I should have listened to you and proposed to him years ago. Settle with him before they could settle me with a stranger. I am such a fool.”

“Hush! You are no fool! You are brave and loyal and committed.” She eased a hand on his shoulder but he shook it off and moved to stand up, giving her his back. Nonetheless, she insisted, “You are one of the most brilliant minds I know, and you deserve so much better than an arranged marriage. I wish I could give you that freedom back, I wish I could grant you that love you long for.”

Derek looked around the garden, following the intricate puzzle of hedges that protected the little tower. His father had indulged Laura’s wishes to have her own little castle when she was a child, adding his personal touch by designing the labyrinth himself. And Laura might have been the one that requested it, but Derek was the one that roamed that place the most. It was the only part of the castle where he could find peace and quiet, alone, protected by the maze surrounding him.

His gaze stopped on a lean figure at the entrance of the labyrinth. A disheveled head and a deep blue garment that Derek’s eye could recognize at any distance. Derek felt the muscles on his face contracting in the first true grin of the morning.

“I still have that love.” He said, turning around and extending both his hands for his sister to grab.

Laura accepted his help and stood with him, then followed his unwavering glance beyond the edge of the maze.

“I just cannot speak about it, nor acknowledge it in any way.”

“Oh, Der,” she gasped. “You are steering yourself towards a downfall. As strong as your heart can be, it won’t bear such burden.”

The prince looked down at his sister. “It will. It must.”

 

♜ ♖♜ ♖♜ ♖

 

 Stiles is leaning back on a pillar that keeps this filthy tavern upright. He stays in the shadow in the difficult attempt to keep a low profile, while his troop celebrates the last night away from home.

He’s twirling the wine in his goblet, getting his hand used to common gestures other than drawing a sword. He’s contemplating the purple liquid as if it contained the solution of the world’s greatest mystery, his mind lost somewhere in the ripples on the surface. A poor attempt to shut his thoughts off, he realizes. Very poor, if the tightness of his jaw is something to go by.

If he was to be honest with himself, he would admit his thoughts were spinning just as fast as the alcohol in his cup.

“I can’t wait to be home and eat a decent meal after years of porridge and starvation,” an overly enthusiastic voice from the table nearby inevitably reaches his ears.

Stiles arches an eyebrow at his wine. _Who doesn’t?_

“Yes, I share the same sentiment,” another man added, in a more reasonable tone.

“Hey, do you think the King will have a feast for us?”

“I think this war has lasted too long not to celebrate the end of it.”

“I don’t know. He’s become such a reclusive, after Lady Kathrine and the fire.”

At this point, Stiles doesn’t even know why he’s still listening. His heart crumples, his chest aches, and he doesn’t know if it’s grief or hatred.

“And Queen Laura’s death. Don’t forget that.”

 “What a tragedy. The Royal family reduced to one single heir.”

And Stiles should turn his attention away, stop eavesdropping, the conversation so foreseeable, pointless… But then a familiar voice slips in with a question that catches Stiles’ attention.

“Did you hear about the riddle?” asks Sir Matthew, with that conspiratorial attitude Stiles hates.

The riddle. The first and last time he heard of it, it was by Erica’s hand, a letter explaining in detail what Derek had gotten himself into. Stiles didn’t know the voice had spread so far as to reach his legions.

“The riddle?” Sir Daniel wonders.

“They say once he became king, after his sister’s death, Derek instituted a riddle for anyone who would ask for his hand in marriage. For three years now he has been presenting his suitors with the same question, and no one has yet been able to answer correctly. He has stayed unmarried ever since.”

“Good Lord, what is then this intricate question no man in the country has found an answer to?” a voice Stiles is quite sure belongs to Sir Jackson points out.

“When he receives a suitor, he blindfolds himself and asks always the same thing: ‘What is the color of the King’s eyes?’”

“That must be a joke.”

“I swear to you, it is no joke, my friend.”

“That is idiotic.”

Stiles feels his grip on the cup tightening slightly at the insult. This is probably the right moment to steer his attention somewhere else and leave the men to talk before he loses control of his actions.

Of course, it is Stiles we are talking about. When does he ever follow his own good advice?

 “How is a suitor coming from far-away lands to know the color of eyes they have never met before?”

“That is exactly the point,” Sir Matthew answered.

“What do you mean?”

“People talk. People have been talking for a while now… They say King Derek has never wanted to marry.”

“That is no news. We all knew the union with Lady Katherine was a political move to bring the reigns to a truce.”

“Fair. But now that his family is gone, he should think about the reign’s wealth and give it an heir. Yet, he shows no desire of another consort. Many think the riddle is just an excuse to refuse whoever comes for power.”

Stiles' knuckles are white in his nervous clench.

“But, how is it possible that no one has gotten the right answer yet? There is only a limited number of colors you can try before stumbling on the right one.”

“Probably he does not even listen to the answer. He just deems wrong whatever solution they propose,” Sir Jackson advocates, and that is the last straw for Stiles.

“You see, my men, your King’s eyes are far from common.” He hisses tight-jawed. No warning at all before he makes himself known to the men.

He leans one shoulder on the pillar from behind which he appeared, and keeps staring down at the cheap wine he was nursing. “And whatever news about your King you might think true, it is just a rumor until you have the evidence to prove it.”

Words come like a spit out of Stiles’s mouth, sudden like a snake’s bite, and probably just as poisonous. When he finally looks up, it is to challenge his men. He skims through the line of them, meeting their eyes one pair at a time, hoping to look intimidating enough. He finds some of them are worried, other contrite, but there is one man that stays unfazed. Stiles’ teeth grit at the sight of Sir Matthew’s icy glance, but he does not retreat.

“I understand that after so many years away from home, your wives’ letters are all you have to keep you connected to reality and up to date– trust me, I do. But this is your regent you are talking about. You are talking about the man that led this country alone for three years after watching his family come apart, his beloved ones disappearing one after the other. If there is a man that is worthy of his title, that is your King. You should feel ashamed of your accuses based on nothing but a silly gossip.”

“We meant no harm, Captain,” Sir Daniel says.

“Maybe some of you, my friend. But others do not share the same noble intent.” His grim look stops on Sir Jackson and Sir Matthew, as to avoid any misunderstanding about whom this whole discourse was addressed to. “I could report each one of you for slander,” Stiles continued. “And you could be hanged for it. So I suggest you choose carefully the words that come out of your mouths.”

Silence surrounds the table, some of the presents unmistakably exuding rage.

“Now, my men, it is time for me to retire to my room and bid you goodnight. Hopefully, tomorrow will pass rapidly and we won’t need to fake tolerance in each other’s regards for much longer.”

He rises, slamming the empty cup on the table before leaving his seat. When he gives them his back, Scott is standing there beside the pillar behind which Stiles had appeared from. As Stiles passes him by, Scott follows.

“That was touching, my friend.”

“Let’s just hope they don’t kill me in my sleep tonight,” he says striding out the inn, heading towards the camp. The sky was clear tonight, the moon casting its milky light on the clusters of tents.

“They wouldn’t dare, _Captain_. Now that the war is over they would have no way to hide the evidence of a murder. Besides, Derek is waiting for you. Nothing could keep him from hanging the man that killed the only person capable of solving the riddle.”

Stiles scoffs. “Right, the riddle.”

“Hey, slow down!” He hears Scott jogging on the gravel behind him before a hand lands on his shoulder and forces him to stop. “Stiles, I know you are worried, but it’s going to be fine.”

“You don’t know, Scott. What if he has completely forgotten me?”

“As if it was possible.”

Stiles turns around to face his best friend among the first knights at the King’s service. “Three years. I haven’t heard from him in three years. What do I know about this new Derek? He could be—I don’t know, he could be a completely different person by now.”

No matter how loud Stiles’s voice grows, the fondness on Scott’s face won’t weaver. His friend stands utterly sure in his opinion about the whole debacle that it makes Stiles envious.

He lets himself fall onto his ass in defeat. He combs his fingers through his strands in frustration, and sags, hunching over his knees. He heaves.

“He hasn’t even answered my letter, Scott. What if he doesn’t feel the same? What if his feelings have dimmed in time?” As he looks up, his friend is lowering himself to sit beside him. “What if I answer the query and he says I am wrong? Or even worse, what if I solve the riddle and he accepts a marriage without love? I do not want to cage him into another marriage of convenience, Scott.”

“What do you want?”

“For him to be happy,” Stiles answers easily, as if that is the sole purpose of his life, to make Derek happy. And maybe it is. “I just want to make him happy, lessen all the pain he suffered in the last five years. I want to see him smile again like he did when we were kids, because I am sure he hasn’t in a long time.”

“Then tell him. Tell him exactly this. Everything you just said to me, repeat it while looking into his eyes you know so well, and let him decide if he wants the same.”

Lifting his gaze at the moon, Stiles feels like he has no choice but to be brave and face the steep climb to see what awaits down the valley.

 

♜ ♖♜ ♖♜ ♖

 

“We won!” Stiles cried behind him, clapping soundly on his shoulder. “We won!”

“For now,” he asserted, eyes firm before him while he kept striding towards his tent.

“Oh, Derek, why must you always be such a killjoy? You’re ruining the moment.”

“What moment, Stiles?” Derek snapped, stopping at the entrance of the tent to look back at Stiles.

When Stiles stopped after him, staring up at him with wide, startled eyes, Derek knew he had been too harsh. But he needed to make it clear that this was not a game.

“We won the battle. It doesn’t mean anything. The Argents’ contingents are still outnumbering us and we-“ He turned around, moved the flap of the tent and walked in, sure Stiles would follow. “We have lost so much already.” He uttered, adding some finality to the statement by taking off his gloves first, then freeing himself from the belt holding his sword. He felt much lighter already.

“Derek,” he heard Stiles sighing out somewhere behind him, “In the capacity of your General and first knight, I believe you are beating yourself up too much. Again.” A gentle hand fell on his ironed shoulder as Stiles spoke to him kindly.  “I know you feel guilty for the losses. I know you care for every single man out there, that if you could, you would spare the life of your enemy because every drop of blood on your hands stains your soul with darkness… But this war is not on you.”

“Except that it is, Stiles! This war is going on because of me. It all started because of me.”

“No, Derek.” Stiles burst abruptly, too close to Derek not to startle him. His General gripped at his shoulder and turned him around, all the kindness of the previous gestures eventually forgotten.

Derek widened his eyes, caught completely unprepared by Stiles’ piercing stare. He was cringing, his eyebrows joining at the bridge of his nose, wrinkling his forehead as his nostrils flared and his lips tensed in a thin line. Angry, Derek thought, Stiles was angry.

He had seen him sad (from time to time), upset (quite often), smug (most of the time) and another wide range of emotional states. But he could count on one hand’s fingers the occasions he had seen him this angry. It didn’t fit him, he decided. Stiles was drawn in gentle features, soft curves composing his face harmonically, but this expression broke all the softness in him, like a sudden false note in a beautiful melody. Derek didn’t like it.

“I want you to listen to me carefully,” Stiles went on, shaking him. “This war is going on because the Argents infringed the treaty when Lady Kathrine attempted to your life, succeeding in the murder of your family. This is _not_ your fault.”

Derek bowed his head and shook it at the ground.

“For the love of everything that’s good, look at me! Good Lor- Derek!” Stiles’ hand slid up Derek’s shoulders until he could grip his neck and force his chin up.

Stiles’ capacity to see right through him had spared him the necessity to speak many times now, and he loved him for it. But sometimes, it could become too much. This man had the power to make Derek feel bare even while wearing an armor.

He responded by wrapping his hands around Stiles’ wrists. “What, Stiles? What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to stop blaming yourself! You. Are not. The cause. Of this.” As he shook him to mark every work, Stiles’ glance stayed unwavering on Derek’s face, on Derek’s eyes. He wanted him to know that Stiles believed in his innocence, and he wanted Derek to believe it too.

This wasn’t General Mieczysław Stilinski, Derek thought. This person in front of him, talking to him confidently without holding back anything, was his best friend. The Stiles who admired him, who supported him, Stiles who had stayed by his side through every single hardship, Stiles who cared and worried for him and would put Derek’s life before his own. Stiles who was ready to drop both their honorifics anytime they started to form a barrier between them, threatening the soundness of their friendship. Derek to him was a friend first, the Prince and the Captain came after, and Derek was so grateful for it.

“You knew she was planning something. You knew it, you tried to warn me, I asked you to wait before acting on it and I let her set my palace afire.”

“You wanted to be sure, Derek. Are you seriously blaming yourself for being too cautious?! It’s what you are, what they’ve taught you to be.”

He knew Stiles was right, Derek had done everything that was in his power to seek peace with the warmonger that was King Gerard. And yet Derek could not push back that sense of guilt that drowned his lungs. He had tried – gods helped him – but it had not been enough to erase it from his mind.

“Derek Sebastian of Hale, Prince of Beacon,” Stiles said calmly this time, releasing his neck to leave his hand on Derek’s chest. “You are the most generous and just man I know. You would never put anyone on trial without having gathered enough evidence. And yes, sometimes cruel people take advantage of men like you, they take pleasure in breaking souls like you, but that does not make you weak. It makes you a good person.”

“A good person does not desire revenge, Stiles.”

A palm cupped his cheek as slowly as humanly possible, and Derek closed his eyes.

“Sometimes good people act poorly when they are hurt. That doesn’t make them bad people, it just makes them human.” Stiles brushed his thumb on Derek’s beard, soothing the ache of guilt away from his chest, only to replace it with a different kind of ache, a more pleasurable one.

Derek wanted to tell him to stop, wanted to repeat once again that they couldn’t, that it wasn’t the time nor the place. But Derek was also tired of waiting, tired of tucking his feelings away for when his life would be better, more peaceful. What if it never got better? Would he give up on it completely? Give up on Stiles? This man was all the peace he needed. Even here, amid war, Stiles had the ability to shut everything out with a simple brush of skin.

Derek let his head fall forward and leaned his forehead on Stiles’. “We shouldn’t,” he whispered.

“I know. I’m sorry,” Stiles whispered back, hot breath ghosting on Derek’s lips.

“Don’t be. You have nothing to be sorry about.”

“I am complicating things. I should keep the feelings at bay.”

“I am not very good at that, either.”

“My goodness, Der. I—“

“My Prince,” a herald irrupted into the tent, making them jump away from each other. The herald bowed his head and kept the pose. “I’m sorry to intrude, Your Highness, but there’s an urgent message from the palace.”

“What happened?” Derek asked, worrying his face with both hands, massaging his temples, hiding the distress as his heart beat a mile a second.

“It’s about the Queen, My Lord.”

“The Queen?” Stiles chocked out before Derek could elaborate something meaningful. “Speak, for the love of-”

“She’s severely ill, Your Highness.”

 

♜ ♖♜ ♖♜ ♖

 

Derek is petrified. His breath has caught somewhere on its way out of his lungs, his muscles are burning, tensing from the nerve, and all of this is too sudden. He thought he was ready, thought the previous days were enough time for him to be prepared for this exact moment. But he was wrong.

Stiles is in front of him, under the arch that signs the entrance of the court room, on the opposite end of the aisle, and Derek cannot believe his eyes. Three years have made him a man, a beautiful, outstanding man so different from the boy that Derek had left on the battlefield. Hadn’t he grown up with Stiles and saw his features change for almost twelve years before their parting, Derek would have hardly recognized him now.

As the Captain strides down the granitic floor, followed by his team of chosen knights, Derek is able to classify an infinite amount of small details.

His shoulders have broadened, lean muscle finally filling the skin of a soldier, and his gait betrays no jitter, nor any other sign of anxiety that used to characterize his persona once.

His face, too, conveys confidence. His face, with this new chiseled jaw replacing the old gentle lines, now sparsely covered in a layer of beard. It is thick enough to make him appear like a man, but still not enough to cover the moles on his cheeks, Derek notices.

His hair is longer, freshly trimmed to a length that makes Stiles’ face look thinner, sunken. Or maybe it is not the hair, maybe his face truly is sunken after all those years on the frontline. He appears so serious and gloomy, his cheeky grin turned upside down and the brightness in his eyes sadly burned out.

Once the Captain reaches the pulpit, knights in tow, they all kneel in front of the throne.

“My King, we bring you victory.” Stiles' voice has grown lower since they last spoke, Derek notices. His tone is solemn like Derek has never heard from him. He feels like he’s facing a completely new person and his fears are starting to bubble again into his chest at the thought.

“Rise, my men. You come back as heroes, and as heroes we shall treat you. Celebrations are ready. Let your people show their gratitude and welcome you back home.”

As the other men stand and break the rows, however, Derek watches as Stiles' head stays bowed, elbow still resting on his knee.

Whether it is fear or anxiety that freezes Derek there in front of a kneeling Stiles, Derek cannot tell. He only knows that his limbs feel suddenly too heavy as an unsettling dark sensation spreads out of his heart radiating through all of his being. _What is Stiles doing?_

Stiles lifts his head, and his eyes meet Derek’s.

Everything inside the king crumbles as he realizes that he cannot read Stiles’ face anymore, he cannot read this new stern look. This firmness in his features, in his shoulders, feels like a barrier that’s keeping him outside, and if Stiles won’t let him in, Derek will be powerless once again. All his hopes about a prosperous future will die with the memory of his brave, enthusiastic Stiles.

Derek’s gaze’s unwavering, and so is Stiles’. They watch each other long enough for the hovering crowd to notice and let whispers fill the echoing silence. Yet, Derek does not care, a great variety of gossips have spread around in the last few years about him, but it is never something worth his worry. The only thing worth his worry in this moment is the man in front of him.

He keeps staring, and it feels like a contest of some sort. At least until Stiles’ expression changes. Derek believes it’s a smile, tired and rueful. As if a blade had just transfixed Stiles’ heart and twisted, Stiles looks ready to fall, exhausted.

The young king is about to open his mouth to question the knight when the younger man forestalls him.

 

♜ ♖♜ ♖♜ ♖

 

“My King,” Stiles says. His voice sounds too loud even to his own years, encased by the tall walls of the throne room. He’s sick, he can feel his blood draining from him and suddenly everything’s too heavy, even his stomach. But Stiles knows that if he doesn’t do this now, he won’t find the courage to test his fortune later. This is his one occasion. “Before you give start to the celebrations, I have a personal request.”

Derek stands rigidly in front of the throne. He doesn’t look any better than Stiles probably does, pale and scared to death. Stiles would like to know what is it that he dreads the most right now, because the person Stiles used to know best apparently became the person he knows the least.

“You may ask, Captain.” The king says in a strangled voice.

Stiles carefully observes the surroundings. He is encircled by faces, judging faces mostly. Someone he recognizes, someone else he doesn’t, but it’s clear they are curious. And he would prefer to avoid making a scene, but he has stalled far too long. And after years of death and sorrow, it is happiness or nothing at all.

 “My King,” he starts again, eyes low in respect. “I come here today with no expectations. I know my place, I know I am no prince and the possessions of my family are not extended as the possessions of many other noblemen and women, here. But I must ask you, in front of this assembly, a question that has devoured me for years.” He raises his head and stares right into Derek’s eyes, risking everything.

“I am standing here in front of you today to advance my proposal and ask for your hand in marriage.”

The whole assembly sucks in a breath flabbergasted, while he bows his head and waits. Gradually, whispers and soft confabulations overlap, voices raising until the throne room is an utter chaos and Stiles could not hear Derek’s answer even if his heart wasn’t beating out of his ears. He has muted his senses, cut out the surroundings, and everything’s muffled in the cloud of chatter. He focuses on the leather of his sword’s hilt wrapped into his sweaty palm, the other hand dangling by the knee upon which his elbow is resting.

When Derek’s voice explodes through the gossip screaming “Silence!” Stiles cringes. He only hopes no one noticed his shoulders shaking at the unexpected outburst, because that would be shameful for the Captain of the King’s knights.

“Captain,” Derek says in a much calmer voice, a tone almost soothing. “You have been away for so long, and here at court things have radically changed ever since you departed…”

Stiles is about to be let down gently, he understands. But the truth is he doesn’t want to hear any of it.

Now that every ounce of the little confidence he has mustered up is gradually vanishing, he just wishes to run and hide away from the world. _Run, run away from the world, out in the gardens, out in the…_ Stiles spiraling thoughts stop abruptly on the image of the labyrinth’s little tower, and the pain’s dagger sinks deeper into his lungs. Where will he go now? Now that Derek will refuse him, now that he is alone in the world. Will he be a prisoner inside these tall walls, destined to look at Derek every day and see what he cannot have?

The silence has fallen. Not even Derek is speaking. But Stiles feels the heavy pacing of the king growing closer to him. The man steps down one of the two rungs of the pulpit, and there he stands, ordering, “Stand, Captain.”

Stiles wouldn’t want to, but he obliges nonetheless. He stands and lifts his head, his eyes, and he finally catches Derek’s.

The sun is high by now, coming into the room from the great mosaic windows and projecting vibrant colors on the assembly. From the window at Stiles’ right, the rays that filter hit the side of Derek’s face, painting his left iris in pale green, a golden sparkle and a hint of brown at times. The right one, left in the dim light, is a different shade of green, darker, deeper. Stiles should not be surprise, but after a long absence, all he’s able to do is mesmerize.

And it probably shows on his face, because Derek’s expression softens.

“I believe the voice about ‘the king’s riddle’ – as people like to name it – reached your years, too, along these years. But in the remote case it has not, I feel the need to explain.”

The king resumes pacing, circling him. “You see, when I became King after my sister’s death, I pledged that any suitor would have to answer one question in order to be deemed suitable for marriage. It is not a riddle exactly, but rather a query about your own king.”

When Derek climbs up the first step of the pulpit again, re-entering Stiles’ field of sight, he is scrutinizing the crowd, rather than the knight.

“Yet, however simple the query might appear, many have tried and failed in the endeavor,” he utters. Then, with a soft expression, he looks right into Stiles’ eyes. “Are you willing to go through this trial?”

“My King, the trial was already of my knowledge when I advanced my proposal a few moments ago. It has been for years.” Derek’s gaze doesn’t falter and Stiles sustains it. He feels suddenly reinvigorated with a new hope. “I must admit I am not sure whether I rise to the challenge. I might fail, just like any other man and woman before me. But my heart is pressing me to try, and this is the reason I’m here in front of you, humbly asking you for a chance.”

“Very well, then.” Glance still enduring, Derek extends his hand to his knights, palm up, demanding something. With the corner of his eye, Stiles notices Sir Boyd come closer, bringing a red cloth and easing it on the king’s palm.

One second Stiles is staring into Derek’s eyes, the other they are hiding behind a thick blindfold.

“Captain, define the color of your king’s eyes.”

Stiles has prepared for this for years. He takes a breath to find the courage within himself.

“I am sorry to disappoint, Your Majesty, but your eyes cannot identify with one single color.”

A low chattering rises again in the room, and Stiles tries to ignore the voice of doubt sibilating in his head. “It takes a lifetime to see each and every shade, every blend of tones that fills them. Maybe not even a lifetime would be enough,” he resumes. “They follow the light, mirror the environment, like the waters of a lake. They can be pine green when the clouds rage over, or seafoam, when the sun shines right into them. Mint, when the sky is terse and you are walking outside; fern, whenever you seek the fresh shadow of a tree.”

 I saw them shift from teal to viridian in a second, when the light still filtered through the white cumulus but drizzle started to drip on our heads. Deep gray in the long days of heavy rain spent in the comfortable silence of your library… And my favorite, the hot fluid silver that fills them during the sunsets on the lake.”

Suddenly, he sees the King’s hand working the knot at the back of his head as to loosen it. When the blindfold falls, Derek’s starry-eyed face is humid with a few hot tears. Stiles wants to reach out and wipe them away, but he refrains, not knowing if allowed.

“Your eyes resonate with your soul, vibrant and multifaced. I am only sorry no one has been able to see behind those lashes enough to notice it.”

Derek is unmoving, letting the saltwater stream his face, but Stiles knows Derek’s heart isn’t breaking. It is swelling again, stirring from lethargy after a too long winter sleep. It’s too much all at once.

When Derek falls on his knees and the crowd gasps, Stiles follows him down, preoccupied.

“Are you all right?” Stiles asks, inching closer to the king and finally – _finally_ – cupping his shoulder with his warm palm. Derek’s hand blankets his, and he nods.

“Not exactly.” Derek looks at him with a tentative watery smile. “But I will be.”

Stiles feels his own tears threatening to burst out and smiles to fight them. He nods.

 

♜ ♖♜ ♖♜ ♖

 

Stiles’ heart was throbbing, hammering violently against his sternum. His breath was coming shorter and shorter as his eyes lingered on Derek’s astounding figure. He didn’t know how to survive all of this.

The prince was standing in front of him, on the first step of the altar, in his royal clothes destined exclusively to formal occasions such as this. His shoulders were perpendicular to the pulpit, but his head was steered towards the imposing door, so that standing behind him Stiles could see his ethereal profile.

Since Derek had first come in, his eyes had refused to leave the open door of the cathedral, staring into the sunlight at the end of the aisle. In this light, they looked… Stiles could not find a word, not today. He had never witnessed such beauty in his short, miserable life.

The prince’s irises shined of a blue so clear they could have as well been made of crystal, the pupil rimmed in a silver crown that radiated in thin filaments. Two pieces of the sky at sunrise had been clearly stolen this morning and pooled into Derek’s eyes.

And yet, in spite of the beauty he embodied, the stern look on his face confessed melancholy, fear, rage… resignation. He stood erected on his spine, the rigid line of his shoulders contrasting with the soft draping of his purple cape, his hands joint in the middle, one looping around the other wrist. He resembled a soldier determined to look his hangman in the eye before facing his imminent, inevitable end.

From so close behind him, the tension contracting his muscles was impossible to miss. But then again, Stiles’ trained eye would have recognized Derek’s true spirit from a distance. There was no one else’s eyes in the whole reign, in the whole world, that could read Derek better than Stiles did – except for Princess Laura, because she was Derek’s closest sister and confidant, and because she was incredible like that. But apart from her, no one knew Derek as deeply as Stiles did. Everyone could think they knew Derek the prince, but Stiles had had the privilege to know Derek the boy, Derek the dreamer, Derek the fanatic reader, Derek the closeted romantic. He knew for sure that no one, not even Laura had ever seen him cry, but Stiles had. Because Stiles was his best friend, Stiles was his best man… Stiles was his soulmate.

And Stiles was about to watch his soulmate marry someone else, someone who knew close to nothing about him.

His heart was rabbiting again, his breath ever more uneven as the panic coiled around his lungs and constricted his solar plexus. Tears threatened to stain his face making him obvious to the whole community, and for a moment he thought of letting it be. Just let them come out and announce the world he was in love with this man, let everybody know. Only… the newly queen-to-be would have banned him from court and his life would have suddenly lost its meaning. Because a life without Derek, Stiles had learned, was an empty one, worthless of being lived.

Wherever he looked, there was no escape. Those bells were bound to chime for him, today, announcing death.

A hand landed on Stiles’ fist, which had unconsciously closed around the hilt of his sword in a tight grip. Stiles lifted his eyes from his boots to find Derek’s worried expression, and his breath caught in his throat.

“Are you all right? You look pale.” Derek’s brows furrowed, and Stiles regretted his stupid sense of integrity.

His other hand covered Derek’s, and he looked down at them as his thumb brushed on the prince’s skin against his better judgment. Someone could have noticed, but he could not refrain.

“Not exactly,” he whispered, eyes running back up to meet Derek’s. “But I will be.” _For you. Because you need me here, by your side, and whatever the price, I won’t leave you fending for yourself._

Gratitude and love were the only things he saw on Derek’s face before the bride could breach the entrance and claim for herself the attention of the attendees.

 

♜ ♖♜ ♖♜ ♖

 

“Maybe we shouldn’t be in your chambers alone,” Stiles says, his fingertips barely brushing the rim of the crown where it sank into the soft of its red cushion. He can’t stop looking at it, golden and so precious, and still so heavy on a man’s head; the perfect symbol of kingship.

“We are not alone.” Derek claims from behind the screen he uses to change his clothes.

“You know what I mean,” Stiles recounts nervously.

“Since when do you care about what we should and shouldn’t do?”

Stiles smiles ruefully at the floor. “I suppose I have changed in these years we were apart,” he says with a voice that matches the sadness in his gaze.

When he hears Derek move the screen, Stiles glances up at the mirror to find the king’s reflection far behind his. “ _We_ changed.”

Derek’s eyes are still distant and unsure. Stiles wonders if this is what Derek was like nowadays: a lifeless shell, a mind that thinks in military tactics encased in a soulless body.

After the heartfelt reunion that left their audience speechless, the king has recomposed himself to conduct the feast. People were happy for the armistice and the new exciting news of their king’s engagement. Stiles couldn’t believe his eyes when he finally reunited with his father, who congratulated him with such pride on his face. Lady Erica was there, too, dubbing her teary eyes with her handkerchief, happy for the royal engagement – more than she had been for her own, to Sir Boyd’s word. And Scott, who gave him a smug look that said he had known all along.

Joy was palpable. For everyone, this was the end to a mourning that lasted three years, the end of Beacon’s dark age.

Yet, Derek kept a safe distance from everyone, Stiles included. Throughout the evening, Stiles watched him drink and interact with his people, sharing animated conversations with other soldiers, but always at arm's length. As the knight observed his king, he noticed how Derek’s stood rigid under his crown, never showing more than a little smile. To Stiles, he felt so far away, distant like he is now.

Staring into the mirror Stiles wishes to cancel the distance between them. He wants to cross the room, hold Derek’s face between his hands and dig into those eyes in search of his best friend.

Instead, he stands like a scarecrow, arms dangling by his sides and glance low.

In the mirror, Derek’s figure moves. Stiles watches him as he opens the drawer and takes out something that looks like a paper in the distance, then he paces towards Stiles. The knight turns around and waits until Derek’s but a breath away from him. Only then the king looks up from the letter he’s holding.

His eyes are intense and deep like never before, reflecting the flickering light of the torches, obsidian black rimmed in gold like an eclipse. They do not falter when he holds up the sealed envelope in his hand.

Stiles’ attention shifts to the broken but familiar red-wax seal and he widens his eyes at the recognition that strikes him. “This is…” His hand flies to the paper and hovers over it, waiting for a permission that comes before he can even ask. Derek hands him the letter, and finally, Stiles sets his grasp on it, opening it hastily.

The paper has turned yellow and thinner over the years. Inside, ink has started to fade and is completely smudged around the few spots where tears have clearly fallen.

“You kept it.”

“Of course, I did.” Derek sounds almost disappointed by the affirmation, and Stiles would like to explain to him that he wasn’t doubting Derek, that he just did not want to delude himself, but he can’t form a word.

He is still admiring the letter with reverence, when Derek asks, “Stiles, do you still mean it?”

Stiles whips up his head and looks right into Derek’s eyes. “Every single word. Nothing could ever change about it.”

“You just said time changed us.”

“Because it did change us.”

Derek’s brows furrow deeper, honest concern clear on his face.

So Stiles leaves the letter on the dresser and takes a step forward, resolved to come clean to him.

“War and death force people out of their old habits, they instill new fears into their hearts and new demons into their heads. But souls are immutable, Derek, and you are part of my soul. My feelings for you are so well-rooted into my chest that not even the darkness I’ve been through could anything to suffocate them.”

Derek’s staring, looking for a fault, for a tic that might debunk a lie, but Stiles feels too bold to back down now. He smiles.

As soon as Derek wheezes out a “Thank Goddess,” Stiles finds himself surrounded by strong arms and Derek’s face is suddenly fitting into the hollow of his neck. The man is breathing him in and Stiles has lost any ability to express his emotions.

“You cannot fathom the hurt,” Derek murmurs into his skin, taking a stabilizing breath. “It killed me when Laura died and you weren’t there. You were everything I had left but you were away. I was afraid, and I needed you. I need you, Stiles. I still do. I know now I can live alone and get by on my own, have the life of a king… But that is not the life I want.” He straightens, catching Stiles’ surprised gaze, and with solemnity concludes, "My life is by your side and I refuse to go one more day without your hand in mine.”

Stiles struggles to find words – to find air, honestly. He knows he should say something, acknowledge Derek’s love, but it hit him too hard. Yet, he doesn’t give into the lump in his throat.

“Good thing I solve the riddle, then,” he snickers, using his best weapon when the silence stretches one beat more than it’s bearable. Unfortunately, he realizes as soon as the words are out of his mouth, that his sarcasm is completely misplaced here. He bites down his lips as he catches Derek’s stern look.

“You could not really wait, could you?” the young king bites back, sounding serious. Good, he just sent everything flying out the window.

But then Derek presents him with a little smirk. “I would have officially called off the riddle and ask for your hand in marriage myself, if you had just waited--”

“And let your people think I wasn’t deserving of you? Not a possibility, I am afraid.” Stiles shakes his head in feign haughtiness.

“Admit it. You long for attention. You just wanted to make a scene,” Derek accuses him.

This feels good. This bickering, this cut and thrust between them, the glint in Derek’s eyes as they stay glued to Stiles’, their matching grins tinted in smugness… It’s like they never stopped, like time never passed and they never parted. To Stiles’ heart, it is like finally coming back home.

He feels all the previous worries slowly dissipating into a far corner of his mind. His best friend is still here in front of him, and Stiles can barely contain his joy in a smile.

“You are just afraid your people will love me more than they love you, once we are married,” Stiles counters casually.

Derek’s glance turns fond. “I am not afraid, I know they will,” he states with a timid smile. “That is why there's no one else I would rather have on the throne beside mine.”

Stiles is left astonished to stare into Derek’s irises, his lips wobbling open, then closed, then open again. He’s at a loss of everything, and he’s beginning to understand this is the average state in which Derek generally leaves him.

Even when Derek takes a step closer towards him, bringing them almost nose to nose, Stiles cannot act on it.

“Stiles.”

“Mh?” he blinks.

“May I kiss you?”

For all the times he imagined their first kiss, Derek initiating it was never an option. It should have been something abrupt, a spark of courage in Stiles’ brain to make him lose control of his own body and leap at the chance. Derek would have been surprised, Stiles himself would have been surprised, and everyone would have been happy.

Now, Stiles doesn’t really know what to do with Derek asking for permission. Anticipation only makes him tenser than he naturally is.

Stiles swallows.

Then nods.

Derek’s hand slips away from Stiles’ waist and up to the side of his neck. His fingertips are floating on Stiles’ skin, ghosting cold against the warmth of his throat and igniting a shiver down his spine.

At first, Stiles tenses in the anticipation of an intimacy he is completely unaccustomed to. But Derek’s hand feels gentle and asking for permission, not quite landing on Stiles’ skin until it has it, yet radiating a reassuring energy. When his thumb brushes down on Stiles’ lower lip, Stiles closes his eyes, leaning into the touch and letting it soothe away every worry.

Stiles breathes and Derek breathes with him, hot on Stiles’ mouth.

It’s just a brush of lips at first, almost inexistent. It is nothing but a taste, and yet that lightness spreads through Stiles’ limbs like liquid gold. His body feels so light, his mind so heavy already.

Derek bits gently at Stiles’ lip before his tongue caresses it. It is all so slow and mellow that Stiles feels his limbs ceding. He wraps his arms around Derek’s shoulders and hopes Derek’s strength will compensate his weakness.

Derek does tighten his hold on Stiles’ waist, indeed, but with the stronger grip, the kisses grow more fervent as well. Stiles responds pressing closer to Derek’s chest, his palms cradle the king’s face scraping at the long beard, and he put more intent into it. Stiles is thirsty for Derek and he tries to pour all of his desire into it.

Before he can realize it, it’s all so feverish and hazy. He feels his trousers starting to constrict before a not-so-accidental pressure tells him that Derek's crotch is similarly swelling.

“Derek,” he wheezes out on the other’s lips, stroking the man’s cheek. “We should-“

“Stop thinking what we should do, Stiles,” Derek breathes out more than he speaks. There is nothing authoritative in Derek’s gentle voice as he drifts apart just enough to take Stiles’ face in. He seeks Stiles’ eyes and bores into them. “If interrupting this is what you desire, then I will stop. Your wish is my command and the last thing I want is for you to feel distressed. I will leave you to sleep in this very room and move to my workshop to vent.” He trails off, brushing his thumb on his betrothed’s cheek. “But if this is just you worrying about our duty to be wed before falling together on that bed, then please forget it. We have waited too long already. Duty has already stolen us years, and I am tired of renouncing to you, tired of failing you.”

“You never failed me. You could never…” Stiles pauses. “But you are right. Marriage will not make me love you more.”

This time, it’s a collision. They crash naturally, like a wave lashing against the rocky shore a little too fervently, impatient to become foam in the impact.

As Derek overwhelms him, Stiles is sure Derek is the wave here. But then why, as he feels Derek’s hands seeking the warmness of his skin under his shirt, does he feel himself dissolve into foam?

They topple onto the covers, kissing and touching and undressing like it’s a fight, one of the sweetest kind. Stiles grows easily breathless as Derek brushes his lips and tongue like feathers on his neck, igniting shivers that take over his entire body. His mind has shut off, he can’t think, and his mouth is running on its own accord.

“Der I-“

“I want you to make love to me.”

_Wait. What?_

Stiles’ chokes on his own spit.

In the shock, he instinctively springs forward to try and cough it away, but he clumsily knocks his forehead on Derek’s in the process. Derek sits on his haunches as he groans in pain, while Stiles stumbles to find a grip and sit straight. Derek helps him to steady himself and, with a hand on Stiles’ thigh, waits for his fit to placate and his breathing to even.

“Good Lord, Derek. Give a man a warning, will you?” he heaves out eventually.

Callous fingers slide on Stiles’ skin and away, gripping at the sheets. “I’m sorry,” Derek whispers. When Stiles worried gaze lifts to look at Derek, it finds him looking anywhere but where Stiles is sitting in front of him. Here, lightened by a few torches, he looks so fragile, so vulnerable, so lost… He is so different from the public Derek, the cool, alerted persona that Stiles saw earlier, as if together with his crown he has deposited his defences too.

Stiles’ hand runs to Derek’s, grabs it, and eases it exactly where it was before, just above his knee.

“Hey, it’s okay. You just caught me unprepared. You surprised me. In a good way. I like surprises. I just- well, choked because, you know, I—OH MY GOODNESS” He haunches forward smashing his lips on Derek’s sad smile and making them tumble together in a tangle of limbs and covers. When Derek finally chuckles as they push away, Stiles feels a knot untie somewhere in his chest.  

“Are you sure?” he asks, smiling down at him.

Derek’s answering nod is slow. “If you want, that is.”

 “If I… YES! Yes, of course I want.” He says, nodding oh so eagerly. Derek laughs then, and there it is, finally, Stiles’ favorite sound. “I want you, Derek. In any way possible. I’ll take what I can earn.”

Derek combs his fingers through Stiles hair and, like a cat, Stiles leans into the touch. “I feel the same.”

He feels so light his head is growing dizzy by the second. In this moment where only the two of them exist, the very first moment they are allowed to spend alone in the dim light of Derek’s chambers, Derek’s touch is reassuring him of everything he has doubted up until that moment. Derek has not changed. This is still the timid, insecure Derek of three years ago.

They have yet so many things to solve between them, this relationship is never going to be perfect. But it’s going to be them, and that’s all that Stiles needs to know to let himself rock into Derek’s embrace once and for all.

 

♜ ♖♜ ♖♜ ♖

 

When Derek wakes up, Stiles is not beside him.

Derek’s hand runs unconsciously to where once Stiles was and grips at the sheets that are now starting to cool. He straightens to contemplate how empty his royal bed appears with just him under the covers.

Outside, the sky is only starting to warm on the line of the horizon, where the first sunrays are peaking out to smudge it in lilac. It’s early, and Derek cannot think of a reason for Stiles to leave the bed at such hour. Getting out of bed himself, he realizes there is so much of Stiles he still ignores, so much his man has experienced without him, things he wants to know if Stiles will allow him in.

He paces to the balcony, coming out in the chill air of November. He loves admiring the gardens at dawn. They are the only thing they were able to save completely from the fire. The rest of the palace has needed some renovation after the collapse of some important beams.

Looking out in the green landscape surrounding the palace as he does every morning, however, he is surely not expecting to spot a tall figure standing on the little white tower. Stiles is giving his shoulders to the palace, watching the sun rise to a new day.

Smiling, Derek doesn’t wait a second more. He wears a coat, grabs a second one for Stiles, and leaves his chambers heading for the labyrinth.

 

When Derek reaches the center of the maze and looks up at the top of the tower, Stiles is looking down at him with a small smile on his face. The king climbs up the stairs twice at a time with his chest bubbling in this refound happiness that clouds his mind. On the platform, Stiles is still looking out in the distance, waiting, with his fists closed around the iron railing.

Derek walks behind him and eases on his shoulders the spare coat he has brought for him.

“You shouldn’t be out here with this cold,” he says, placing his palms on Stiles’ shoulders to warm him. He leans forward so that he is cheek to cheek with him.

Stiles scoffs. “I have survived worse than this on the battlefield, My King.” He stays, unmovable on the edge of the tower while the sunrise advances. He feels tense and distant – too cold, given the previous night – and Derek fears he missed something happening between them.

 “You are right. It is that, well, I am used to worry for my ungainly, forgetful best friend, and I forget we both have grown up since then.”

“If yesterday night is of any indication, I still am that clumsy kid, apparently.”

“I did not think you still had it in you,” Derek smirks.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Stiles asked, looking at Derek over his shoulder to show him an expression of faux outrage.

Derek laughs. “I meant that when you walked into the throne room yesterday, I dreaded I would have never seen you trip over your own feet – or your tongue, for the matter – ever again.”  
Stiles sighed. “I was convinced of that too. But whenever I am around you, I feel free. As if I do not have to pretend anymore. I can safely be myself.”

As his betrothed looks away again, Derek steps closer, his chest flush to Stiles’ back. “I feel the same.” His arms around the knight’s waist, his hands rest on his stomach and Stiles doesn’t hesitate to lean into the touch, covering them with his.

“I noticed.”

“Did you, now?”

Derek kisses the skin of Stiles’ shoulder, right there, in the hollow where the undershirt rides down. He cannot help himself, cannot refrain from nibbling at the softness of it. The beauty spots stand out over the fairness and scream for attention. It’s all so inviting, and he still cannot believe he is allowed to.

“Mmmh-mh.” Stiles murmurs. “You only laugh when you’re with me. You weren’t like that before.”

“ _We changed_ ,” Derek quotes, easing his chin on Stiles’ shoulder. He feels Stiles nod.

“That is why I came back here this morning,” the knight explains in a whisper, nudging at the garden around him. “It’s the only thing that hasn’t changed.” The fingertip of Stiles’ index trails on Derek’s forearm, sending a shiver down Derek’s spine that forces him to close his eyes. “Everything here speaks about her.”

Everything goes silent for a while, and Stiles seems content with that. Two years ago, stillness would have made him restless, fidgety, but now it seems like peace is everything his body desires. And so does Derek’s body.

“She had always known about us, you know? About my feelings for you.” Derek whispers over Stiles’ shoulder, words like delicate breaths on his skin. “She saw it from the beginning and she warned me every day about it, but I was too stubborn. I continued to reassure her that I was not planning to fall for anyone, that I wasn’t in love with you, we were just friends…” Derek trails off, his hand slowly releasing Stiles’ shirt and slipping down powerless. “But she always knew me better than I knew myself.”

“I’m sorry I missed her passing ceremony.”

 “I am sorry you weren’t there with me,” Derek whispers. “But I am not sorry you missed my mourning. The duty on the frontline spared you the sight of a sombre me. I was in poor spirits…”

“You were brokenhearted, Derek,” Stiles states ruefully, not afraid to correct Derek, like in the past. He intertwines their fingers and leaves them there. “You were alone, facing too many responsibilities at once. I wanted to be there. For you. To mourn her with you and lift some of the weight off of you.”

 “I am sorry it took me so long. After the fire and Kate, I was too broken to even breathe. Then we were sent to war and even amid the battlefield your presence somehow restored me. But I hesitated, because that is the only thing I am good at. I hesitate, until decisions are taken from me and everything dear is out of reach.”

Stiles, who has listened carefully in silence, grasp at Derek’s wrist to disentangles his arms and turns around to face him. He brings Derek’s hand to his lips and kiss his knuckles, then looks at him with a relaxed expression, asking, “We are here now, aren’t we?”

“I am still struggling to believe it, but yes.”

“So am I. But we are going to be married in a few days and we are going to rule this reign together, day after day, year after year, until death do us part. And probably even after that.”

But no matter how reasonable Stiles can be, the air still feels so heavy in Derek’s chest. “I am only afraid I will lose you just like everyone else.”

The younger man’s hand runs up Derek’s shoulder, until his pads skim his rough cheek. Stiles' eyes stay firm on his as he cradles his face.

“Derek, I promise you this. There won’t pass a single night that I am in the castle that I won’t sleep in the nuptial bed. With or without you in it. I will not lie once in my own chamber alone. Even when we will argue and yell at each other –which I believe is inevitable with us,” Stiles adds lightheartedly, coaxing a humid scoff out of Derek.

One young tear has just streamed down his face and Stiles is starting to appear slightly out of focus. He closes his eyes, focusing on Stiles voice rather than his watery silhouette. He wants to commit every word, every pause, every breath to memory.

“Even then, I will wait on that bed for you to come back. Because I know you, and I know you always will come back.” He feels Stiles rub his thumb over his high cheekbone and wipe away the stream that wets it. “This fear, this awful sensation might never go away – I can’t promise you that. But what I know is that every morning we will wake up together and fight it. We will prove each other this is real.”

Derek takes a steadying breath and tries to speak through the quiet sobs he’s releasing.

“I love you immensely, Mieczysław.”

“And I love you, Derek,” he hears Stiles wavering voice say.

When he opens his eyes, Stiles’ eyes too are glazed in steaming emotions.

Now that everything has been said, Derek kisses him. He kisses him to convey everything that words may have forgotten, everything that settles in his gut when Stiles is near. He kisses him, because whenever he does, it feels like he is breathing for the first time, like he has never known oxygen before.

When they part, Stiles tuck his nose under the hinge of Derek’s jaw and brush his mouth on Derek’s stubble. He whispers, “Good morning, Your Majesty.” And Derek can feel the tugging at the angles of his lips.

Derek chuckles. “Good morning to you, My King.” He says, unable to stifle the smile rising on his face. He squeezes Stiles a little more between his arms as he rests his head on Derek’s shoulder. “Welcome back home.” 

Stiles pulls away enough to beam directly at Derek. His eyes are still glimmering, but his face is now open in a smile that, from this point on, will lighten Derek’s days more than the sun itself. “Welcome back home, my love,” he says.

Quietly, they return to admire the view over the railing. Looking out in the morning sky, Derek realizes that Stiles is right, everything here talks about Laura. He can feel her everywhere, in the smell of the dew-covered grass, in the first warming rays on his skin, in the breeze that gently blows on his face and tells him he’s awake.

 

♛ ♔♚ ♕ 

 

_Dearest Derek,_

_You will forgive my insolence in addressing you by your given name, but it is not my former prince, now almighty sovereign, this letter is intended to. The person whom I am writing to is my best and oldest friend, whose recently has seen his world dramatically overturned after an unbearable loss._

_Dearest Derek, I cannot even start to describe the gaping void your farewell has left in me. I am writing to you in the middle of the night, the third I spend sleepless. My mind won’t rest, and my heart is equally skittish, unable to settle at the thought of you lying lonely in your chambers. I have received only a few hours ago your letter sharing the terrible news from the palace. My heart, which was already damaged by your departure, has finally broken at the announcement of Queen Laura’s passing._

_My mastery of language is not enough for me to assemble formulas that you haven’t already heard uncountable times in these last two years, and I am indeed afraid my condolences will only sound empty to your ears. My words will not warm you as my arms would, and I curse this war for keeping me away from the place where I should be, from the person I should be holding._

_I loathe the Argents with all I have for tearing everything away from you, including myself. I cannot stop these tears from moistening my face, cannot find peace in this distance. Who will stand by you during the funeral? Who will keep you awake when you refuse to fall asleep? Who will watch over you at night when you concede yourself to Morpheus? And who will ever wake you before your nightmares become overwhelming?_

_I keep seeing your face, your eyes looking back at me over your shoulder before your horse could start the race towards home. Their fluid silver of that morning stains my heart irrevocably… Derek, I don’t think I have ever felt strongest feelings than these. I feel them flooding my chest, clawing from the inside and lacerate my being. So please forgive me if I confess this by means of perishable paper, but I can’t bear it any longer._

_I love you, Derek Hale. And I might not possess the ability to read into the future, but I can assure you that this sentiment will not die at dusk tonight, nor the day after, nor the day after that. Because from the moment I have laid eyes on you, it has done nothing but grow stronger each moment we have spent together. I cherish every memory, every fragment of the past where I am by your side, and there is nowhere else I would rather spend the rest of my days._

_I lack the skills of a poet, so you surely won’t read a sonnet where I compare my love for you to an exotic flower or the sweet song of a bird. This is all I have, my undying love and the mare vow that once this war will have ceased, whether it is in months or years, I will come back home to you and prove you that every word in this letter comes from my deepest core._

_In the meanwhile, please, Derek, I beg you, I supplicate you: promise me you will seek for help whenever the weight of everything becomes unsustainable._

_Forever yours,_

_Stiles_

**Author's Note:**

>  **Note:** The architecture of the gardens was inspired by the labyrinth of Villa Pisani, one of the Palladians Villas located in the Veneto, in Italy. They are part of the [UNESCO World Heritage](http://whc.unesco.org/en/list/712). I visited Villa Pisani more than a decade ago and this [labyrinth](https://www.histouring.com/data/cch/addon_gallery/1159/1280x1024xy/pisani%20lab5_7.jpg) enchanted me. The image just stuck and I had to use it for this story, even though it was impossible to do it justice with words. Here's a closer look at [the little tower](https://qzprod.files.wordpress.com/2015/07/lead_villa-pisani.jpg?quality=80&strip=all).
> 
>  **Other Note:** I'm just gonna leave here Stiles' real name's meaning. "Derived from the Slavic element _mechi_ 'sword' combined with _slava_ 'glory'." I swear it's a coincidence.
> 
> My [tumblr](http://itsdeianeira.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/Deianeira__) in case you wanted to come and say hi!


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